


Hawke/Anders Shorts

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Humor, Injury Recovery, M/M, Meta, One Shot Collection, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9322115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: A collection of short fics from Tumblr; too long to go in the drabble collection, but too short to have their own entries.





	1. lingering warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'one falling asleep on the other'

One thing that Hawke had noticed about Anders was that he could sleep anywhere. Another thing Hawke had noticed about Anders was that when he was in the vicinity of someone he trusted, he tended to _slide._  It was as though some force mage had cast a little Pull of the Maker that redefined ‘down’ just for him, so that he would slowly, gradually keel over towards the other person.

Of course Hawke had never taken advantage of this. Never.

It was a baking hot summer day in Kirkwall, and they were waiting in the antechamber of some upper crust estate for Varric to get out of his meeting so that they could go find some trouble and get in it. Sunlight slanted through the low-cut window, making dust motes dance on the flagstones; and Anders, sitting on the padded bench next to him, was starting to slide.

Hawke sat, not daring to move as Anders drooped further and further on the bench. Every couple of seconds his head would jerk back upwards, but then the next minute it would dip even further. Gradually he keeled over until his cheek hit Hawke’s shoulder;  holding his breath, Hawke leaned back slightly until Anders slipped off his shoulder and continued his slow, inexorable descent against his chest.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, breathless, listening to the tiny buzzing snorts of Anders’ snores as he dozed on Hawke’s lap. His hair spread out in a golden fall in the sunlight, the ends brushing the edge of the bench in a blaze of gilding.

A noise from further in the house – sounded a little bit like the twang of Bianca – jerked Anders awake. “Whu?” he said, struggling to pull himself back upright. “Where… Oh. Sorry, Hawke… didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“It’s all right,” Hawke said. It was more than all right, but he wasn’t ready to say that, yet. “You looked really tired.”

“I am really tired,” Anders agreed, covering up a yawn. Some of his hair had come out of its ponytail, and was sticking in an awkward curl over his eyebrow. On impulse, Hawke reached out and brushed it free.

At any other time, Anders would have shied away, defensive and wary and hurt. But right now he was warm and sleepy and open, and still affected by the pull of gravity, judging by the way he tipped for a moment into Hawke’s hand and smiled against his palm.

The door opened suddenly and Hawke turned away, dropping his hand. Varric bustled through and it was all back to business as usual; except that when no one was watching, Hawke stole a kiss to the lingering warmth on his fingers.


	2. small kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompts: 'caring for each other while ill' and 'forehead kisses'

Anders knew nursing. It had been part of his medical training back at the Circle, part of the training of every mage who passed through the infirmary under Wynne’s stern eye; she didn’t think much of apprentices who were too squeamish, or thought themselves too fine a mage to scrub out a bedpan or two. He knew all the basics: how to mix and administer potions, and what medication for every need; how to cook up porridge for those on liquid diets and broth and tea for the _clear_  liquid diets. He knew how to give sponge baths and change dressings and keep a brisk and cheerful manner throughout.

He knew it, but he hadn’t honestly used those skills much since he came to Kirkwall. He had no shortage of patients, which indeed was the problem – there were too many of them, and not enough of him to go around. He simply didn’t have the time to sit at the bedside of every ragged Darktown refugee who came through his clinic, to feed and clean them and make sure they drank their potions properly – not when there were ten more patients waiting in the room beyond bleeding or coughing themselves to death. He did the things that only he could do, and mostly left the nursing care to the families or, for those who had none, to his aides.

 But there was an exception to every rule.

A thumping noise from the floor above caught Anders’ ears, attuned for that very sound; he put his current draft of letters aside and mounted the stairs quickly. Arriving at the doorway of Hawke’s room, he saw about what he had expected; Hawke had tried to get out of bed, again, and gone down in a tangle of covers.

 "Maker, Hawke, are you all right?“ Ander exclaimed, hurrying forward. One of Hawke’s legs was actually still on the bed, tangled in blankets; one of his hands was braced on the floor, balancing him half-in and half-out of the bed.

 "No, actually, not at all,” Hawke admitted, and as Anders came closer he saw a sheen of sweat over the greenish pallor on his face. “This – this was a terrible idea. Please help.”

 Anders wasted no time; he caught Hawke by the hip and the shoulder and, with a bit of awkward heaving, delivered him back onto the mattress. Hawke remained stoic through the move, although Anders didn’t miss the flinch of pain that wracked his face as his body twisted.

 "Now,“ Anders said once Hawke was back in place, automatically straightening the blankets and pillows. "What exactly were you trying to do?”

 "Well, I thought that if I leaned over far enough, and supported myself with one hand, I could fish out the chamber pot from under the bed…" Hawke trailed off, a sheepish expression on his face. “It didn’t work out quite like I’d hoped.”

 Anders sighed, gesturing to the nightstand at the head of the bed; it was crowded with a flask of water, three different colors of phials, one of Varric’s books, and a small bronze bell. “Then you should have called me,” he said. “I gave you that bell for a reason, love.”

 Hawke’s expression shifted to something faintly mutinous, his jaw working under its heavy black beard. “I shouldn’t need anybody else’s help just to take a piss,” he muttered.

 "Well, right now, you do,“ Anders said dryly. "You can’t get in and out of bed on your own right now, let alone any other acrobatics you were planning. Unless you want me to get the bedpan?”

 Hawke winced. “No! Really rather not.”

 Anders nodded, the answer having been about what he expected. “Then call me when you need to get out of bed,” he said, striving for a tone of reason. “It’s what I’m here for. If not me, then Bodhan. One of us will be here anytime you need us.”

 Hawke looked away. “I shouldn’t have to call you twice every hour,” he mumbled. “There are some things a man ought to be able to do for himself. I shouldn’t be bothering you every time I need my damn pillow fluffed.”

 "There are plenty of things that a man ought to be able to do for himself,“ Anders agreed, "but those men don’t have open perforations in their abdominal walls. A secure, intact torso is pretty much a prerequisite for most of those things, I’d say.”

 Hawke snorted, then flinched again as the incautious movement ripped across his stomach. “Ow. Stop making me laugh, blast you.”

 "Sorry,“ Anders said. He went over to the nightstand, examining the three colored vials carefully. Red for painkillers, yellow for the anti-nausea potion, blue to help him sleep. The red one, unsurprisingly, was empty, and he picked it up. "Need more of this?”

 Hawke was quiet for a moment, then “Yeah,” he sighed.

 Anders went to go refill it, and refill the water flask at the same time; Hawke glanced at it with a combination of loathing and longing, torn between thirst and the knowledge that would only hasten his other problem. “I don’t suppose there’s any more you can do with healing magic?” he said, just a hint of whine in his voice set off with hopeless resignation.

 Anders shook his head, feeling sorry to have to say it, but it was the way it was. “Sorry, Hawke,” he said. “Not until the wound stops draining and all your organs are in the clear. If I try to heal it up now, it might capture some infection in the deep tissues, and that will just be worse in the long run.”

 Hawke just nodded, not even trying to argue, and Anders felt a pang at how listless and drained the vibrant warrior was at the moment. He was a worn shadow of himself, exhausted by the smallest of efforts, not even putting up as much of a protest as Anders would expect from the stubborn man. He set the potion and flask down within Hawke’s reach – his easy reach, requiring no more acrobatics to pick it up – and reached for a soft cloth, instead.

 Sweat still stood out on Hawke’s forehead, and Anders carefully wiped it away with the cloth. Hawke’s eyes fluttered open, dull and pain-clouded under their lids. He rolled his head weakly back, meeting Anders’ eyes, and even with just a fraction of Hawke’s usual intensity in the gaze, Anders found himself caught.

 "I hate this,“ he muttered. "I hate feeling so weak.”

 Anders completed the motion, trying not to let his arms tremble no matter how his heart twisted and fluttered in his chest. “Listen, healing up is a full-time job,” he told him, making his voice brisk and businesslike. “All your strength is going to that right now. Once you get that little hole in your abdomen healed up, why, I’ll expect you to go around saving _two_ cities per day.”

“I’m not going to laugh at that,” Hawke informed him, “partly because it hurts, mostly because it wasn’t funny.”

 "Sure it wasn’t,“ Anders said indulgently. "That’s me, curtailing my irresistible sense of humor out of deference to your need not to laugh.”

 Hawke smiled, a brief, tight, pale flash of his lips in his beard. “Appreciate it,” he said quietly.

 "You should probably sleep more,“ Anders said, pulling his hand reluctantly away from where it had been tangling carefully with the sweat-damp locks. Hawke could probably use another bath, maybe a wash of his hair, although Anders wanted to wait until he could move around a little more easily before they tried anything that acrobatic. "If you need anything, ring the bell. I mean it.”

 "I hate having to bother you for stupid little things,“ Hawke muttered, turning his head on the pillow to address the wall. The furthest away he could get, really. "You’re already doing too much for me.”

 Now that would just not stand. Anders stooped over the bed, capturing Hawke’s jaw with his palm to turn his face back straight, and kissed him.

 It wasn’t the best kiss he’d ever had, rather weak and flavorless on Hawke’s part, with the sour tang of sweat and worse that clung to his bedclothes. But Hawke’s lips moved against his, the prickles of his beard caught at Anders’ lips, and he was warm, and he moved, and he breathed, and he _lived._

 "Never,“ Anders said, when he broke the kiss at last. He kissed him on each cheek, then again on his forehead. "Never.”


	3. second chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'time travel,' the sillier of the two entries; the other one eventually became standalone fic "[Time Enough](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6116099)."

“All right!” Dorian rapped the tip of his staff on the stone table they all sat around, producing a loud clanging sound that clamored in the small room. “Enough bickering. I hereby call this meeting of the ‘Well, Everything Is Terrible, Might As Well Try Stupid Stuff Until Something Works’ Club to order.”

 The other three members of the club rolled their eyes, but settled down with only a few trailed-off mutterings. Dorian’s naming skills were absolute shit, but they had to admit they were apt.

 The last few years had been an utter disaster. Just as the mage rebellion had finally been getting its feet under it, forcing the Chantry to take them seriously enough to negotiate as equals – equals, for the first time in history, to their templar jailers – the Conclave had blown sky-high. In the wreckage of the explosion, which had taken out half the senior hierarchy of the Chantry, a new political power had risen: the Inquisition. Led by a Seeker and a Templar – the loyal right hand of Meredith Stannard of the Gallows, no less – the Inquisition had wasted no time in blaming mages for the death of the Divine, allying themselves with the radical splinter faction of Templars, and starting a campaign across Thedas to purge every mage they could get their hands on.

 All across Thedas – Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches – local rulers bowed to the Inquisition, or mysteriously fell. As it turned out, _nobody_ had expected the Inquisition. A newer, more fervent strain of Andrasteanism was on the rise, one even less tolerant – if that was possible – than centuries of Orlesian imperialism.

 "So, does anyone actually have any ideas?" Solas asked, looking around the gathering.

 Anders shrugged. "I already used my big one, I’m afraid,” he said.

 "What if,“ Hawke started, "we let slip to the Inquisition that there was a really, really _big_  cabal of rebel mages hiding at the bottom of the Abyssal Rift –”

 "No ideas from the Champion’s quarter either,“ Solas said, cutting across the rest of this plan. Hawke huffed in outrage, and Anders gave him an apologetic smile and hand-squeeze under the table. "Pavus?”

 Dorian tapped his neatly trimmed fingernails nervously against the table, a teeth-rattling sound that couldn’t be good for the enamel. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “You’re not going to like it, though, unless you’re a fan of warping the strings of time and space themselves completely out of alignment and utterly obliterating the thin shell of reality on which we stand in favor of an alternate universe to take its place, unknowing of the silent existential screams of the annihilated.”

 Solas blinked slowly. Raised his hand, then carefully lowered it again.

 "Will there be explosions?" Anders asked.

 "There will definitely be explosions,” Dorian replied.

 "We’re in," Hawke announced for them both.

 

* * *

 

The Breach seethed in the sky, belching out smaller Rifts to rocket through the air and blow craters into the ground. Swarms of gibbering demons crawled out of the holes, to be met with the last struggling remnants of the Conclave’s security forces.

 "Soldiers, rally to me!” Cassandra bellowed as she strode into the melee, as three others trailed in her wake like the setup to a bad punchline: an elf, a dwarf, and a very bewildered-looking Vashoth. “Where is the Commander? We must –”

 She stopped short as a young, dark-haired man in Templar plate fetched up before her, saluting sharply. “Ma'am!”

 "Who are you?" Cassandra demanded sharply. "Where is Commander Cullen? I left him in charge here!”

 "The Commander took a nasty tangle with a, er, change-of-heart demon, Ma'am," the young Templar reported blandly. "He’s in the infirmary tent, and I’m sure he’ll wake up soon. I’ve taken over command here, as the next highest ranking officer.”

 "Oh?" Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she swept over the battlefield, noting the disciplined formation with approval. "Who are you? What are your qualifications? Why are you here?”

 "I’m Captain Carver Hawke, formerly of the Kirkwall Templars, Seeker ma'am,“ Carver replied. "As for my qualifications, I was an officer at Ostagar, spent several years working in approved mercenary corps, and fighting at my brother’s side l before I joined the Templar Order.”

 "That doesn’t mean you can just – Carver _Hawke?"_  Cassandra’s attention was arrested, and she eyed the young man with a new sudden hunger. "Any relation to… the Champion of Kirkwall?”

 "My older brother, Seeker ma'am," Carver replied dryly. "And as for why I’m here, you could say I’m looking after the interests of… certain parties.”

 His eyes flicked over Cassandra’s shoulder, where a party of four mages were  hidden _very badly_ behind a nearby wall of stone, the ends of their staves sticking up past the cover. Garrett was waving frantically and mouthing cues at him, which he ignored.

 "And _actual_   military field experience, you say…" Cassandra paused. “Very well, you may remain in command here – provisionally. We must return to the Temple, so that Messere Adaar here can finish what she started.”

 "Who, me?" the tall Vashoth asked, blinking around in confusion. "What I started? What? I don’t remember any of this…”

 Carver saluted again, for good measure. “It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Serah,” he said.

 Garrett was going to owe him for this into the _next Age._

 

* * *

 

 "Skyhold in the evening is such a fine place for a romantic stroll, isn’t it?“ Hawke remarked to Anders as they meandered casually around the battlements. In the courtyards below them, the freed mages practiced their drills in careful ranks: shields interlocking with fire and ice, healing and harm balanced in perfect measure.

 "Mm, it is,” Anders said with a smile. “All thanks to your brother for allowing us to stay here. I didn’t really think he would.”

 "Eh, Carver’s an ass, but his heart’s in the right place," Hawke said with a shrug. "When push comes to shove, he won’t forget what he learned from our father: Magic should serve what is best in us.”

 Anders smiled mistily at him, and the two leaned in from a kiss. From further down the battlements, where the door to one of the towers had been propped open to catch the last sunlight, an irate voice yelled “For fuck’s sake, at least take it around the corner where I don’t have to watch!”

 "Time twisting, traveling, unwinding, going back to the start and taking another way, like a stream that’s dammed, saved again, flowing down another path… better. Kinder. Second chances. Forgiveness, compassion. Me," Cole mused, looking down at the two lovebirds from his perch on the roof. He looked up at the listener, veiled from all eyes but his, and smiled. "I like this future much better. Thank you for making it real.”


	4. a little list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders spent a day at the beach. This was originally a standalone fic, but because it was under 1k words I combined it with the other shorts.

The sun blazed overhead, but the air coming off the sea was cool – cooler than Hawke had expected. He’d always been taught that the further north you went, the hotter it got – but here on Nevis, a tiny little island off Llomeryn, itself an island off the Rivaini mainland, it was almost temperate. Something about the direction of the sea currents, Isabela had explained it, and the trade winds.

It had all gone rather over his head, but he didn’t have to understand it to enjoy it – the sand was warm under his feet, and cooler when he dug his toes under the top layer. He had a flask in one hand of a brew the locals made with fruit juice, although he suspected this batch had been pretty thoroughly watered down from what they were serving back in the town – even the _flies_  that fed on that brew flew in dizzy drunken spirals. It had gone warm sometime throughout the afternoon, but Hawke was in no hurry to go back.

Especially not when he heard soft shuffing footsteps on the sand behind him – and he’d know that gait anywhere, he would know the feel of those footsteps if he were blind. Hawke closed his eyes and tilted his head back, and the red glow behind his eyes fell dark as another body leaned down over his, blocking the sun and kissing him upside-down.

“Finally decided to join me?” Hawke said, eyes fluttering open as the kiss ended. He caught a flash of Anders’ smile, of the way the red-gold slanting sunlight caught in his hair and eyes and made them glow, in a way that had nothing to do with any Fade magic.

Anders flopped down next to him on the sand with a sigh, long limbs sprawling everywhere. He wore a pair of ragged, cut off pants – actually his old pants from before they’d fled Kirkwall, finally past the point where any amount of bandages could hold them together below the knees – and one of Hawke’s shirt, unbuttoned in the front and falling loose about his chest. He spotted the flask in Hawke’s hand and lifted his own hand, wiggling his fingers as he raised an eyebrow in silent query.

Hawke smiled – the benefits of traveling with a mage – and held out the flask; Anders  cupped his palm around it and let out a weak Winter’s Grasp. The flask chilled rapidly, frost forming on the sides and dripping off the bottom, and when Hawke took another sip it was deliciously cool. “Thanks, love,” he said, holding it out again. “Want some?”

“Sure,” Anders said, taking a swig and passing it back. “Sorry I went missing on you. The warm afternoons make me not want to do anything but nap in the shade.”

Hawke nodded acceptance of that, even as his face pulled down in a frown"You’ll never get your tan this way,“ he said, eyeing the pale throat and collar exposed by the shirt.

Anders laughed. "I think the tan is a bit of a lost cause, love,” he said, ruefully showing off one arm – the skin there still a pale beige, studded with orange freckles that clustered like the leaves of the tropical trees. “I’m never going to get any darker – just more spotty.”

Hawke sighed agreement, studying Anders’ arm critically. He’d really been hoping for a tan. A tan, some dark hair dye, a full-grown beard – it would all combine to make a drastic change to Anders’ appearance, enough to make him unrecognizable from the wanted posters. At superficial first glance, they might even be able to pass as brothers – and two brothers traveling together would attract less curiosity than two unrelated men.

He had a list. A list hidden away in his luggage, with no title on top, but it was the list of Ways To Keep Anders Safe. He kept it close at hand, bringing it out to work on it whenever the anxiety rose up to grip him from the inside, squeezing his heart and his throat whenever he looked at Anders, at the thought of someone taking him away. He’d bring out the list and jot down a frenzy of new ideas, and feel better;  every time he checked off another item on the list, he felt a deep satisfaction.

“Maybe we should ask around in town,” Hawke said thoughtfully. “I bet they’d have some henna for your hair. Crop of bright flaming red, and nobody’s going to be looking at your face.”

Anders made a face. “You think I could pull it off as a redhead?” he said, having long since given up protesting Hawke’s ideas.

Hawke couldn’t help a grin, eyes tracking from Anders’ chin down his throat and chest to his belly. “Why not? You’re halfway there already,” he said, and Anders blushed even as he tried to smother a laugh.

At least he _could_  laugh, now. At least he would sleep when he was tired, and eat and drink when he was hungry and thirsty. At least he didn’t sit in a corner like a broken doll, moving when he was moved and doing only what he was told, staring into space the rest of the time. Coming to Nevis had been worth it for just that much, worth it just for the chance to sit on the beach with Anders and watch him painted in the sunset light.

Maybe this, too, was just as important a part of keeping Anders safe.


	5. singing in the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "having their hair washed by the other."

Of all the rooms in the too-large, too-empty Amell Estate, Hawke liked the bathroom the best. Years of bathing in cold silty rivers, under pumps, or with rags out of basins in a crowded tenement apartment had thoroughly exhausted him to the charms of cold-water bathing. Far better to have an expansive bathroom with a tub you could fit a horse into, something that you could sink into at the end of a day to soak your pains and fit all your limbs in at once.

The fancy washroom had drains set in the floors to take care of splashes and overflow, a cabinet filled with fluffy towels and topped with an assortment of soaps, and of course, enchanted runes for all the hot water he could want. But best of all, in Hawke’s opinion, were the echoing expanses of tile which gave the room the best acoustics for singing.

It had only been recently that he’d made this discovery. When he’d first moved into the Amell Estate after returning from the Deep Roads, he hadn’t been in much of a singing mood. There wasn’t really much point, was there, without siblings in the next room to annoy with your rendition of “The Girl at Red Crossing” with a floating wooden ducky in the role of the girl.

But there had been plenty of chances to find out – his washroom saw a lot of use. He spent more time than he cared to think about slogging up and down the muddy slopes of Sundermount, picking his way through sewer tunnels and caves, and getting splattered with Qunari blood or spider guts. And more and more, recently, he wasn’t alone.

Today was a spider-guts kind of day; it had set firmly into his hair on the walk back from Sundermount and hot water alone was not enough to dissolve it. Right now he wore a stylish hat of suds, waiting for the soap to dissolve the goo before rinsing it; while he waited he sat on a stool by the head of the bath, scrubbing his hands vigorously through Anders’ hair.

Anders leaned back against the edge of the tub, eyelids falling shut in pleasure – or perhaps just to avoid the suds – and began to sing.

 

“I know a little pussy  
Her coat is silver-grey  
She lives down in the meadow  
Not very far away…”

Hawke couldn’t keep the smile off his face, the wide grin that kept trying to pull his lips back from his teeth. Anders, they both knew from experience, had no talent for music at all; he was hopeless with a lute, and had trouble even keeping a rhythm when taking up the clapping section during the rowdier songs in the Hanged Man. But the tune was simple enough, and the tile walls bounced back his warbling voice into a rich fullness.

It was still missing something, though. Hawke ran his fingers through Anders’ hair again – the spider glue was all gone by now, but he still enjoyed it – and joined his own voice to the song.

 

“She never was a kitten  
She’ll never be a cat  
For she’s a pussy-willow,  
Now what d'you think of that?”

Anders’ voice bubbled up with laughter as they both took the final descant. “Meow, meow meow, meow, meow meow, meow, meow meow, _scat!”_

It was a silly song, a small thing, raising their voices in old Ferelden children’s tunes while outside, the world was still filled with horrors. But for the moment, those horrors crept on by without them; they were warm and safe and clean, and together.

And they sang.


	6. the daily grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "de-stressing together." A bit unusually for me, features a very red Hawke.

Hawke threw open the door to Anders’ clinic with a crash. It bounced off the far wall and splinters flew, and Hawke felt a pang of guilt for the damage; he hadn’t meant to wreck Anders’ home, but he was too furious to see straight.

 Fucking bigoted Marcher arseholes. Hawke had returned home after a long night of patrolling – patrolling _their_  streets, keeping _their_  people safe from _their_ stupid bloody gangs – to find that some hilarious jokester had left a dog’s food dish wrapped in a bow on his front doorstep with a “Welcome Dog Lords” label attached. Blighted charming.

 "Hawke?" Anders stuck his head out of the next room. His sleeves were tied back, his hands stained today not with blood but with a greenish plant residue. He always smelled of elfroot, but the smell was sharper, greener today, a breath of nature in the dark underbelly of the city. The sight of him helped calm a little bit of Hawke’s boiling rage – as usual – but it still seethed under his skin, seeking an outlet.

 Anders came out, wiping his hands on a damp rag. “Was that you? Maker, I thought the Templars were invading my clinic.”

 "Sorry," he said, but the word came out biting and angry. He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. Anders didn’t deserve for him to take out his temper on him. “It’s been a bloody wreck of a morning.”

Anders’ eyebrows rose, but he didn’t press for details. “I take it someone will be getting a gauntlet to the face?”

 "If I knew where to aim my fist," Hawke snarled, "He’d be picking his teeth out of the wall behind him for a week. But it could be any one of the bloody bigoted Marchers in this bloody cesspit of a city.”

 Anders’ lips pursed, and he pointed to his back room. “Well,” he said, “if you’re so full of temper that can’t find a proper target, maybe you could put all that energy to good use instead.”

Hawke followed Anders into the back room. It was more like a long closet than a proper room, darker and closer than the rest of the clinic, but without the underlying tang of blood and urine. Instead it smelled of plants, both fresh and fermented, and the occasionally noxious scent of potion-making. Anders handed him a pestle and pointed him to a nearby countertop, where a heavy stone mortar and a pile of herbs waited. “Those all need to be powdered, in order to treat masks against the chokedamp.”

 Since just such a distraction was half the reason he came here, Hawke set to with a will. He recognized the plants as embrium, dried but still whole, the flower petals having withered from around the large seed pods. He stripped the wilted stems and petals away, popped the seed pods in the mortar, and started grinding.

 It was difficult going – the seeds were hard and tough, and the stone pestle was heavy – but there was something incredibly, viscerally satisfying about grinding the smooth solid stone into its base. He could feel the pop of each seed pod under the pestle, each one like a little roiling explosion under his hands. Knowing that each of these seed pods could save the life of an elder or child struggling to breathe against the tainted air of Darktown made it an effort that was worthwhile.

 Gradually his temper bled away through the steady, rhythmic motions of the mortar and pestle. When he finally stopped for a break, arms and shoulders aching from the effort, Anders came up behind him.

 "Good job,“ Anders said approvingly, leaning over his shoulder to peer into the mortar full of powdered embrium. His hands settled on Hawke’s shoulders and began kneading, a rhythm as deep and steady as the rhythm of mortar on pestle. Hawke couldn’t help a groan of pleasured relief, and he rolled his head back to encourage Anders to press deeper. With a grin, the healer did.

 "I don’t know how you manage to do this work all the time,” Hawke admitted, rolling his shoulders a bit to try to ease the tightness. The last of his fury was ebbing away, caressed from his muscles by the healer’s sure touch.

 Anders chuckled. “Well, part of it is just knowing to pace yourself,” he said. “And part of it is making sure to keep the toughest jobs aside for when my over-muscled boyfriend comes around in need of a stress break.”

 Hawke couldn’t help but snort a little. "Over-muscled?”

 Anders smirked at him. “A little bit, yes. I must say, even aside from appreciating your help in getting the grinding done, I appreciated the view those bare arms made, working away at that mortar even more.”

 "Oh?“ Hawke turned around until he was face to face with Anders. Those same arms – over-muscled or not – encircled Anders’ back, pulling him in close enough that their faces almost touched. "And just how much did you appreciate it?”

 He was close enough that he felt more than saw Anders’ lips curve up, close enough to feel the brush of his eyelashes when he dropped his eyes. “Well,” Anders purred, his breath ghosting over Hawke’s lips. “Maybe I should show you.”


End file.
